Captain America: Basic Training (and Educating)
by CallMeCaptainRogers
Summary: (Post-Civil War! T for language.) Steve and Bucky are now S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best weapon. Following a mission that they took into their own hands, Director Fury demotes the super soldiers to substitute teachers for a kindergarten class. Their choices are to work with the kids, or potentially lose their positions.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

S.H.I.E.L.D HEADQUARTERS: FRIDAY, 0800 HOURS

Footsteps were soft and rhythmic as they echoed through empty halls against polished floors. Two pairs of cautious feet clad in combat boots carried their bearers from a nighttime mission that lasted through the early hours of the morning, to a disciplinary meeting scheduled no more than ten minutes earlier. By Captain Rogers' memory, it was with two minutes until landing. However, _when_ the meeting was haphazardly organized didn't matter. Not to Steve, not to the man at his side, and last of all, Nick Fury. The concerns of Captain America and the Winter Soldier were beginning to pile up.

"Do you know what we did wrong?"

Steve perked up just enough to be noticed at the sound of Bucky's voice, pondering it for a moment. "By Fury's standards? Everything."

"That wasn't my question, Steve." Bucky brought his (organic) hand up to rake it through his hair, soon rubbing his eyes once the brunette strands were free of tangles. "Tell me what we did wrong by _your_ standards. We completed the mission successfully."

"Yeah, but we didn't follow orders." Steve was aware of their actions. They took a different route without prior approval, due to the mission's circumstances being different in action than on paper. It was, to be frank, the most recent installment of the Captain's deviations from original orders. "We did what we felt was necessary without seeking permission."

"Hm." The two fell quiet following Bucky's unspoken agreement, taking the elevator to the conference room they'd been directed to. Steve could feel the eyes of the agents on their backs when the doors were opened for them, and shut when they were surrounded by the silence that the room and the director had to offer.

"Sir?" Both stood at ease, though it was forced. If their uncertainty wasn't evident, nothing was.

"Morning, Captain. Sergeant Barnes," Fury acknowledged Bucky with a nod. It wasn't a pleasant greeting. They weren't sure what it was.

"Good morning. We're here for disciplinary action to be taken, sir." Steve kept his head up, though he was conscious of Bucky's gaze faltering out of his peripheral vision. Discipline had a different definition from the perspective of the Winter Soldier. Nick didn't mention it, though.

"Good, you know you can't listen. That should make this easy, now. Then again, y'all know how to make 'easy' the most difficult thing in the world. Tell me what the mission was, Barnes."

"The mission was to successfully apprehend the rogue Russian HYDRA ship that stole vibranium from a Wakandan port, sir." His voice didn't shake, and his eyes remained stoic when he kept them up. That was progress. He was doing better.

"And I gather that the mission was successful? Y'all are in one piece, Russians are in custody?" The director stood, leaning over the glass desk.

"Yes, sir." Steve clasped his hands behind his back, eyes slowly drifting to the ground.

"But you didn't carry out the orders as directed. You can't listen, can you, Captain? You're like a kindergartener."

"Director Fury, the situation didn't require for the orders issued to us to be carried out. We had to act on an alternate plan for the safety of ourselves and of the enemy." There was a briefly exchanged glance between Steve and Bucky, but no further words.

"The safety of the enemy isn't your concern."

"Sir, the thieves didn't appear to be a threat. They were clearly inexperienced. The circumstances they were working under weren't clear. For all we know, they were forced. We didn't use more force than was necessary," Bucky stated, sighing, though the air escaping his lungs was inaudible.

"Your mission was to apprehend the thieves with the intent to intimidate. You aren't working here to be a pacifist." Fury walked around to get closer to the two soldiers, his eye narrowing.

"Understood, sir." Steve met his gaze calmly, though his expression was solemn. "What disciplinary action are you taking?"

"This is very, very far from the first time you've done the exact opposite of what I told you, Captain. Sergeant Barnes, I'm certain that you're still trying to readjust to being on this side of the playing field. I've had you working with Rogers because y'all are the only ones who make any sense to one another. There's an elementary school in Brooklyn. In one of the kindergarten classes, the teacher is out for the rest of the year, and the assistant was fired. You two are going to be their replacements."

This time around, there was no hesitation in the astonished look passed between Steve and Bucky. June was only two months away, but neither one dared to ask why this was happening or how it was even made possible.

"Today's Friday. You start on Monday. You've got ten five-day weeks, except for the Friday before Memorial Day. Show up dressed like that," Fury said, gesturing to their tactical suits and body armor, "and I will kick both of your asses so hard that Wakanda won't have enough vibranium to replace y'all's limbs."

"…Is that all, sir?" Steve asked.

"Details will be emailed. Dismissed."

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK CITY: 1400 Hours

"Do I even _own_ any dress pants at this point? Or khakis, at least?"

Steve shrugged, scrubbing his hair dry with a towel. He looked over Bucky's shoulder as the man sifted through his closet. Presently, Bucky's wardrobe consisted of very little that extended beyond 'casual'. T-shirts, sweats, cargo pants, and several jackets made up the large majority of his clothing. The black tactical suit and weaponry didn't really count, in either of their minds. If it wasn't civilian clothing, it wasn't really clothing at all. "I've got some stuff you can wear, probably. You'll just need to do some adjusting."

"Thanks. I guess that means…" Bucky began, though he trailed off.

"Means what?" No answer. "…Means _what_ , Buck?"

"We have to go shopping." Bucky offered a devious raise of his eyebrows and a grin, looking to his companion.

"Suffer for our sins, you mean?" Steve replied. Shopping, regardless of what the sought out items were, was not an activity that Steve enjoyed. It drew unwanted attention to him, and allowed him no less than the most amount of time possible to be spent at a store. Just two weeks before, he was gone for two hours attempting to buy water and two bags of chips.

"Look, we just need to wear the right clothes and nobody's gonna know. Wear a Yankees hat and some sunglasses, nobody's gonna guess that it's you." Bucky stood from his position of ransacking his closet, massaging the back of his neck with his left hand. "And a generic hoodie."

"You say that like I haven't done it before." Steve walked out to his own bedroom, pulling four occupied hangers from his closet. Sharing clothes wasn't too strenuous, but he had the money on hand to keep it from being an ongoing routine. "Here, is this okay?" He gestured to a red and blue plaid flannel and khakis, eyes expecting an answer.

"I have a vibranium arm, you think I care?" Despite his reply, Bucky nodded, a faint smile crossing his face. "Thank you."

"Sure thing…you feel alright?" Steve received another nod, and no verbal affirmation. "That's good." Initially, when his friend offered such a simple answer to a loaded question, Steve didn't trust it. Following a (not so) subtle breakdown on Bucky's end about how Steve was worrying too much over him, and, in turn, placing more stress on Bucky, he took to accepting the brief affirmations as truth. _"If I wasn't okay,"_ Bucky had said, _"you would know it."_

"Your outfit looks like you're trying too hard."

"It does _not_ ," Steve bit back. He glanced at the khakis and gray Oxford, then to Bucky.

"It looks…preppy."

"What, should I wear my Army t-shirt underneath it?" Steve himself wasn't sure if it was a sarcastic question or not. He wasn't going to decide, he knew what answer was coming his way.

"That's a great idea. Where's the shirt that I have that says 'Back-to-Back World War Champions' on it?" Steve offered nothing more than a shrug. With his prosthetic hand, Bucky pulled the flannel from its wire hanger and felt over it. "How many of these shirts do you have?"

"Flannels or patriotic button-downs?" Steve watched the way the silver fingers grazed over the fabric. It was interesting to see that the arm, while a nearly indestructible weapon, was able to be used with extreme care.

"Patriotic flannels." Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, looking through the open blinds. The scene outside of the window was something of a comfort; taxis still wove through the area, and old tenement buildings lined the opposite side of the street. It was the remaining piece of New York that the super soldiers knew.

"Just that one," Steve answered, snapping Bucky back to his question.

"I like it."

"You can keep it. I haven't worn it in a few months." Steve pulled the clothes from their hangers, folding them and setting them on the end of his dresser. From a drawer, he pulled a gray shirt out, setting it on top of the button down he planned to wear. "How do you think Fury managed to get it approved that we work with kindergarteners?"

"Don't know. But, he is the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. He can probably pull more strings than he knows what to do with." Bucky set the mass of soft plaid aside, standing up. He folded his arms over his chest, blowing a wisp of hair from his face. "I don't think you're gonna have a very happy group of parents."

Steve nodded his agreement, an audible sigh slipping from his lungs. "It's going to be a nightmare any way we slice it. I'm more afraid of the kids than their parents, honestly."

"You think you're afraid of them? They'll be scared to death of me, Steve!"

"That's if they even know who you are, Bucky. I don't know that they're old enough to know about the Winter Soldier. Listen, it'll be fine. It's Fury's problem if backlash gets out of control. Right now, though, we either do this, or risk losing our positions."

Bucky nodded, looking at the floor. "Are you sure that this is the lesser of two evils, though?"


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

BROOKLYN GARDENS ELEMENTARY SCHOOL: MONDAY, 0750 HOURS

The scent in the air was unfamiliar: disinfectant and Cheerios, and it wasn't masked by the apple-cinnamon air freshener that even Steve recognized as out of season. There were no words exchanged from Steve or Bucky to the scatted group of children whose eyes had turned on them. They disregarded the woman before them; she was in her late forties or early fifties, Steve guessed, her hair beginning to gray slightly among dusty brown. She had met them about thirty minutes earlier to show the Captain and Sergeant around the school. It seemed pretty basic, not easy to get lost in. Terri Holder was her name.

"Good morning," she said to the kids, hanging in the balance of forced pleasance and apprehension. Bucky figured he was responsible. If not strictly him, then the situation as a whole. Mrs. Holder was greeted with a chorus of 'Good morning's, though they were distant, and perhaps a bit mesmerized. (Some of them, at least.) "We all know that Ms. Erriks is out for the rest of the year, right?"

A unified group of nods.

"Can we say hi to Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes?" She stepped out of the way of Steve and Bucky, giving them a window of time to, in Steve's case, wave with a warm grin, and in Bucky's, offer a faint but welcoming smile.

"That isn't Mr. Rogers, that's Captain America!" one little voice yelled. Bucky was able to catch who it was: a scrawny blond boy with a Yankees snapback in his hands, who seemed on the verge of exploding. "And Bucky!"

"No it isn't," another boy said. "Where's his shield and his helmet?"

"Shh, shh, settle down. You can ask all of the questions you'd like in a moment. You," Mrs. Holder stated, getting the attention of the little blond. "You need to go put your hat in your cubby, okay? Go on." The two soldiers exchanged a glance; what the hell was a cubby? The boy pulled himself up on rail-thin legs and scrambled off toward a group of square shelves, stuffing the navy blue hat in with his lunchbox.

"Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes are going to be your teachers through the end of the year. I'm going to come in every once in a while to see how things are going, alright?" She received more nods before she took that as her chance to walk out while she still could. It was silent for a moment as the two men searched for a place to sit, though they eventually opted to lower themselves to be on the floor.

"Are you really our teachers?" a girl asked.

"Yeah. We'll have fun, I promise," Steve replied. He looked to his left, the blond having materialized at his side.

"Are you actually Captain America and Bucky? He doesn't look like Bucky." The Winter Soldier looked to his companion without a word. He couldn't tell himself that he wasn't anticipating anything that could catch him off-guard. "He is," Steve answered. "We'll bring in some of our stuff to show you tomorrow."

"Mr. Captain America?" A girl with a dirty blonde bob threw her hand in the air, nearly smacking the boy next to her on the way up. Steve pointed to her to take her question, raising an eyebrow. "Why are you and the man with the shiny arm our teachers?"

"The man with the shiny arm is Bucky." Steve was about to continue before he was interrupted.

"Can I call him Bucket?"

"No." It was the first time Barnes had spoken since walking in. "Just Bucky. Or Winter Soldier, or Mr. Barnes. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Anyway," Steve began, "we're here because our boss thinks we act like kindergarteners. We did our job in a way that was different from what we were told." He searched the faces of the kids in front of him. "Any questions?"

"When are we having free time?" The question came from a boy leaning against the back of his chair, holding a sixty-four pack of Crayolas with the protective instinct of a new mother. Bucky stood, walking over to the desk in the corner, by the window. He opened a folder, pulling out a small stack of paper held together by a green paperclip. "General lesson plan says thirty minutes of free time before math."

"You guys can have free time now. Don't be too loud, alright?" Bucky watched them get up and disperse about the room, to various tables and rugs. It was a bit early for them to be so judgmental as to form cliques, but he could see the makings of a few. Meanwhile, Steve shifted on to one knee, looking to the hatless boy who remained by him. "What's your name, little buddy?"

"Aiden." He offered the man a grin riddled with loose baby teeth, eyes bright. "You're my favorite superhero ever." It brought a broad but closed-lipped smile to Steve's face, but he wanted to get the gears in Aiden's head turning.

"Why not Iron Man? He can fly, and he's so smart! Or Thor?"

"Iron Man and Thor are cool, too. But you're the best 'cause you were little, but you're Captain America." Steve quickly examined the boy's legs with an understanding nod. "I wanna go on missions, like you do."

"Look at you; you're already on your way to being S.H.I.E.L.D.'s top agent." He stood, picking Aiden up beneath his arms and set him on his feet. Steve allowed a moment for him to get some stability before letting go. "You can wear your Yankees hat if you want to. I don't mind." He watched another smile come to pass before Aiden was gone, and returned to Bucky.

"I have an idea," Bucky stated in near monotone, locked in a staring contest with the clock on the opposite wall.

"Shoot," Steve replied, unbuttoning his sleeves to roll them up.

"You're better with kids. I'll handle time-outs, since we don't have the ability to use paddles without a lawsuit. We can teach and read and tell stories on little shifts. I do one thing, you do the next, and so on."

"That's fine. Don't do anything that's going to have parents going to the school board." Steve chuckled softly, rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. "There's something about emails that we have to mess with, and I can take care of that."

"They've got forty-five minutes to lie down and rest. I think then would be a good time." Bucky was followed by a brief fragment of time that contained no conversation before an angry declaration of small scale war rang out.

" _Share!_ "

"No! Mine!"

"Alright, enforcer," Steve said to Bucky, though his focus was on two boys and a pack of crayons, his eyebrow cocked. "Your time has come." Bucky glared at the Star-Spangled Man With a Metal-Armed Backup Plan, walking over to the table with a blue basket in the middle.

"Just let me use your orange, you don't need it right now!"

"I _need_ you to get your own orange." It was the same boy with the crayons that had asked about free time. He turned, grabbing his crayons and pulling them out of reach. Bucky walked around to lean against the edge of the table in front of them, looking them both over.

"Is something wrong here?" he inquired.

"Carter won't share his crayons!"

"It's Car _son_."

Bucky forced himself not to roll his eyes. Of all the colors in the box, this kid wanted plain orange? He wouldn't admit it, but he was thankful he never settled down and had kids. It wasn't as if he had the chance, but that was beside the point. "Tell me your name," he said to the boy demanding an opportunity to color.

"Michael."

"Alright, Michael. You won't get anything if you aren't respectful. Do you know what 'respectful' means?"

"Uh-huh." He received an acidic glare from Carson, but he was keeping eye contact with Bucky.

"Carson, will you share if he's respectful?"

"Nope." The boy shook his head, shifting back to face the man. _Problem solved,_ Bucky thought.

"Michael, you can always go and get the box of crayons on the shelf."

"Do I _have_ to?"

"If you want to color," Bucky answered simply. There was a second where the boy wanted to challenge him, but the conversation ended and he skulked off to the aforementioned box. Bucky turned his attention to Carson, running a hand through his hair. "Carson, right?"

"Just call me Carter, nobody gets my name right."

"You don't want me to get your name right?"

"Eh." Carson shrugged. "Cool arm. You're like a Power Ranger."

Bucky had absolutely no clue what he was referring to, but that was alright. "Thanks."

" _Are_ you a Power Ranger?"

"No, I'm a soldier. And your teacher now, apparently." He waited for another question, but Carson returned to coloring with his obscene amount of crayons. The kid seemed to have a negative attention span, but that went for a majority of them. He supposed that could have gone a lot worse. No tantrum was always a good start. Bucky looked over to Steve before approaching him, his expression indiscernible.

"How'd it go?"

"Refresh me on how many more days we have to do this? And you didn't take roll," Bucky remarked.

"Forty-eight. You think Fury's gonna call us in for a mission until then?" Steve replied, grinning at Bucky.

"Name one time we were ever that lucky." In the silence that followed, occupied by Steve rolling his eyes, Bucky added, "Exactly. Never."


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

JOURNAL OF THE WINTER SOLDIER. FIRST ENTRY.

 _This is the first thing I've written down since being put back into cryo. The first thing I've written where I have a legitimate grasp of who I am…or was. The only thing I want is to be that man again. If not for the sake of myself, then for Steve. He's earned that much._

 _I've been living with Steve for a couple of months now. It's an apartment, refurbished inside of an old tenement building on Union Street in Brooklyn. It isn't overwhelming like the rest of the places I've seen. The outside is like being back in the '40s again. It was Steve's decision to live here, and it's a good one so far. Except for the air conditioner, the air conditioner needs fixing. Living with him is both terrifying and something of a sanctuary. I'm so afraid that something's going to get in my head and I'm going to do something awful to him, and I know he won't fight back. But he hasn't flinched once when I brought it up. He's been guarding me. (I think I was looking after him at one point. A long time ago. I don't really remember the details, but there's a role reversal somewhere.)_

 _Outside the windows on one side of our building, we can see some of the skyscrapers. They're a bit far off, but it's something to look at when I can't sleep. I can't sleep very much, and little noises set me off. Sometimes I panic when I smell certain things or go under bright lights. Hearing Russian puts me on edge, gets me jumpy. Steve says that it's symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, but that it's going to be okay because he has them too. I think we can help each other, and that might revive whatever we had before. I know I helped him before._

 _It's been a good distraction to go on missions that aren't corrupted. I don't know that if there's any redeeming myself from everything I did as HYDRA's weapon. But I'm working to prove that my brain is actually mine and that I'm playing for the home team. I'm still the Winter Soldier. I can't escape it, so I won't try. I'm going to work around it. I'm not a villain. Natalia (I think she goes by Natasha now) was able to switch sides, and she's been accepted. I don't know that I'm going to be that fortunate. Never really been lucky, but I had nothing and Steve was there._

 _I'm not a villain._


	4. Chapter 4

(The lyrics used are from "Me" by The 1975.)

CHAPTER FOUR

STEVE ROGERS' APARTMENT: 0357 HOURS

He stared outside of the window, beyond the split in the almost transparent curtains. His thoughts were accompanied by nothing but the sounds of air crawling into and out of his lungs, and the rickety, _thunk thunk thunk_ of the apartment's old A/C unit coughing back to life.It still shook him; the manner in which the lights of Brooklyn and beyond glowed against concrete and shafts of steel, and shimmered against endless windows at they reached up into the sky to challenge the stars for never showing their faces. It was all of the smog. That's why no one could look up and see anything anymore.

Steve Rogers was one of the oldest residents in the city that never sleeps, and yet he seemed to be the only one without closed eyes. Even Bucky hadn't woken up this time around. He sat on the end of his bed, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the fragments of the floor that were illuminated by the dull orange glow of what lay beyond the window. He'd come to terms with his body rejecting his request for a rest, and instead used the time to think about whatever came to mind. Some nights, it was Bucky. Others, it was about the way reality seemed both altered and grounded in his memories. On occasion, however, he'd sing to himself. Not loud enough to stir a soul apart from his own, but enough to keep everything worse than insomnia at bay.

He let his bare toes touch the floor, standing and walking to the kitchen. There were dishes he'd abandoned earlier in the night, and now seemed as appropriate of a time as ever to take care of them.

"I got a plane in the middle of the night, don't you mind?" He thought about the after-dark flight to find the 107th as he cut the light on. The sounds of the propellers and the wind still sliced through his mind. Some nights, they ate him alive.

"I nearly killed somebody, don't you mind, don't you mind?"There were many men left broken and bloody and unresponsive in his wake since 1944. In his hands, his muscles had memorized the feeling of two things not commonplace: the first was the edge and leather straps of the vibranium shield. The second was the feeling and weight of a gun, used to down the HYDRA-faithful. After thawing out, he ruled (for the sake of his mental health) that killing was an absolute last resort unless stated otherwise. He was still a soldier with orders.

He turned the handle of the faucet, waiting on the water to run hot.

"I gave you something you can never give back, don't you mind?" He'd come to terms with what his job requirements were. The sacrifices that had to be made on the spot, regardless of location or original directions. Steve had rescued more people than he could recall. Soldiers. Children. Civilians. Families. Some debts were not repayable, and he had accepted that from the beginning.

There were only two plates and a few items of silverware that had narrowly avoided the disposal, and they were dabbed with a small amount of dish soap. It only took one incident with too much soap to learn that a few drops were more than enough.

"You see my face like a heart attack, don't you mind, don't you mind?" _Bucky._ He was what created Captain America. Steve's first mission was self-appointed, and he would never allow it to slip his mind: rescue Bucky, because he never made it back, and he couldn't be dead. Steve had asked himself once what would have happened if the body he had discovered on a lab table never responded to him, and the dread of the idea matched the Winter Soldier's gaze upon recognizing his past companion as a helicarrier collapsed around them. That was Bucky's homecoming. The start of it, at least.

Steve let his mind slip into some state of ease as he scrubbed the dishes clean, attempting to ignore the too-strong fragrance of Gain.

"I was late, but I arrived." Peggy Carter was another face that visited him frequently. When he recalled hitting the ice, he recalled her, and the promise he made good on. Four times, actually. Twice he was sent to the U.K. for purpose of a mission, and twice he went on his own accord. The first time, he gave her the dance promised seventy years earlier. And three more times, as her memory didn't allow her to retain the first, and four dances on Steve's end didn't even come close to enough to what he felt he owed her. Neither did bearing her casket.

He set the dishes on the other side of the sink to dry, wiped his hands on the closest towel and cut the light out so that the apartment might once again be silent.


End file.
